


So It Goes

by iguessyeah (PoxandRoses12)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: But kind of, Normal High School shit, Slow Burn, Team Bonding, not really a fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoxandRoses12/pseuds/iguessyeah
Summary: “Good,” Tony released his shoulder. “Now, I know you’re busy, waiting on those acceptance letters—they switched to email, right? God what a lame notice—do they do that cheesy shit with electronic confetti falling down your inbox? I mean—““Yeah, Mr. Stark, they do.”“Jesus. And Prom? May told me about Prom—“No patrolling on Prom, Tony, no missions on Prom night, Tony or I swear—“”“Uh,” Peter started.“Prom?” Clint’s head popped up from the couch. “I went to Prom. Fucking awful—““Gonna rent a tux, Spidey?” Sam asked, lips twitching.“Well—““What about that…friend of yours? Scary girl? With the key that’s actually a knife on her key-chain—“ Tony snapped his fingers, as if trying to conjure a name out of the air.Or: As Peter copes with senior year and the inevitability of change, Prom approaches and shit goes down.





	1. tuna and peanut butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MJ is on board with the idea of Prom and Peter is still confused

“—so, all in all, yes, I would go.” MJ, holding a thing of peanut butter and two slices of whole wheat bread in her left hand and a container of tuna and some mayonnaise in the other, swiftly shut his fridge door with her foot and dumped her items onto the kitchen counter. She let out a quiet huff of…almost exasperation, as if she was tired of explaining to them (she was often tired of explaining simple things to people) and set to work on her sandwich. Meal. Something.

Peter was, if he was being honest, kind of shocked that MJ would even consider Prom as an event to attend. But then again, her life motto revolved around “let-me-do-what- I-want-because-I-know-what-I-want-and-what-I-can-do-and-you-don’t-‘cause-you’re-not-me-capiche?” And she _had_ just spent five minutes telling him and Ned (who was paying absolutely no attention except to his online lab report due in seven minutes) that young girls and women spend all of their time either adhering to other’s (men’s?) expectations of them or deterring from them, and she was starting the trend of doing neither—because her expectations were her own…or something like that.

“Okay…so you would go to Prom?” Peter sat on the other side of the counter and wiped chip crumbs off his IB Bio textbook to seem nonchalant. He quickly glanced over to MJ, now aggressively peanut-buttering her bread.

“Jesus, Peter.”

“What?”

“Yes. Yes. Prom. Yes. I would go. Pay attention for five fucking minutes of your life, loser, honestly,” She slapped a dollop of mayo into the tuna can and stirred. “And stop asking me about it.” With unnecessary force she slapped the tuna-mayo mixture onto the peanut butter side and smushed her sandwich together with a _squelch._

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Ned chimed in from the far end of the counter, eyes not leaving his computer.

MJ shot him a look like “what’s it to you?” A classic.

“Why do you keep tuna in your fridge anyway?” Ned leaned back in his chair, causing the front feet to lift off the ground and stretched his arms over his head. “May doesn’t eat tuna and you disowned the stuff after that-that one school lunch in 7th grade? Tuna chunks _everywhere_ , man you really hurled—“

“—don’t lean back in the chair like that, dude c’mon, May’s rule—and no, I like tuna. I like it…it’s grown on me. What?” Peter threw his hands up at Ned’s unconvinced stare, half smirking he lowered his chair back to the floor.

MJ munched, silently, hair falling in front of her face and she reached for her book next to Peter’s elbow, who, anticipating the motion, slid it across to her.

This was what Thursday afternoons had been like for a while now. Peter felt solid in their trio. This was routine. An afternoon off of patrolling, no decathlon—only in emergencies would he have to cancel and Ned and MJ would shuffle off to a different primary location. Ned would turn the phone-tracker on and double-check that his headset was stowed in the secondary pocket of his backpack just in case. Mostly, they did homework, studied (in his case, crammed) for tests, and waited in quiet anxiety for their college acceptance emails. That whole process had been a nightmare—for MJ most of all, who, in all of Peter’s time of knowing her, had never broken a sweat about essays or portfolios, but had for months been thrown into moments of intense panic. If they were at Ned’s, she would lock herself inside his bathroom while Ned and Peter sat outside the door, playing a Fleetwood Mac soundtrack they had compiled for just these moments. If in public, like at Muggsy’s, she would begin to shake uncontrollably, her fingers hovering just above her keyboard. Peter would grab onto her shoulder, rubbing his thumb along the _incredibly tense_  (like, holy shit) muscle there, and Ned would order her a hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. If they were at her place, she’d make tea. Cups of it. For her, for them, for her cat. And they’d all sit around with their steaming mugs—sugar, milk, honey—and talk it out.

Yet, even though he knew this was incredibly selfish and almost…sociopathic, Peter preferred it when MJ would break down at his house, when they were flopped on the couch or sprawled out in their respective places in his room. MJ would kind of just…stop. Everything would stop. Her breathing almost nothing, her eyes glazed. Ned would step out to get her a glass of water. Peter would approach her, either scooting his butt on the floor over or walking slowly if she was sat at his desk. The first time this happened, in September, he barely brushed his fingers over her hand. By December, she would be leaning into his side, and he would wrap his arms around her, holding her for as long as she needed.

There was one time, specifically, before she submitted her final Common App essay to NYU that he thought about a lot.

_“MJ this is literally only one part of our lives. Whatever you write, they’ll love. They’d be idiots not to.”_

_“Then they’re idiots.”_

_“MJ…”_

_“No, Peter, let me have this.”_

_“Let you freak out?”_

_“Let me freak out.”_

_“Okay.”_

_There was a long silence, and Ned came back and set the water down beside her._

_Then,_

_“I’m not fucking weak.”_

_Peter started, his eyes almost having shut completely, his breathing deep, his body warm from hers, “I know.”_

_“This is not damsel behavior.”_

_“I know…”_

_“This fucking sucks.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Fuck this.”_

_He squeezed her a little._

_“Fuck this.”_

_And when she was ready, she untangled herself from him, stomped into the kitchen, and made herself some ungodly concoction of a snack._

Peter made sure they never ran out of peanut butter. Or mayo. Or tuna.

But that was beside the point.

He was glad that they could have this time before…before everything basically changed forever and…well. He was just happy.

“Peter, do you have a 50 mil beaker on you by chance?” Ned turned to him. “I need to check this shit.”

“Ned, you definitely don’t need to check it. You do your lab reports like they’re the fucking Enigma Code,” MJ said, chewing.

“It doesn’t hurt to check!”

“I got you,” Peter slid out of his seat and headed toward his room, hitting the back of Ned’s chair so that Ned went crashing forward back to the counter.

“Hey!”

“May’s rule!”

Peter went to his closet, pushing aside clothes and empty web fluid bottles and mismatched socks because he definitely had a beaker in here from last month’s chem project—

Peter’s phone vibrated in his back pocket.

Peter gagged on the smell of a particularly stained (how??) blue sock and threw it across the room to his hamper as he reached for it.

“Shit—no—MJ get it AWAY—“

“Ned just one bite—“

Peter hurtled back into the kitchen, pulling his backpack straps over his shoulders and grabbing the bag of chips from the counter. “Sorry guys—I gotta blast. Emergency internship…meeting…emergency lab-malfunction—“

MJ removed her hands from Ned’s head, having attempted to shove a piece of her sandwich into his mouth, and Ned turned his head so fast he probably got whiplash.

“What?? Now? Where—when—“

“No time! Mr. Stark, you know—busy man—“

“More of May's pasta for us,” MJ shrugged and turned back to her book, unphased--but what else was new.

“Save me some!”

And Peter was out the door and sprinting down the back stairs of the apartment complex. Pulling his mask out of his hoody pocket, unzipping said hoody, and tossing his backpack into the big alley dumpster (garbage truck came Wednesday mornings), Peter swung off into the late afternoon light (chips for dinner--there's protein in salt and vinegar, right?)..

**MESSAGE**

**from**  irondad

_142 West 96 st get your ass down here._


	2. salt and vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Avengers are annoying, Tony is trying his best, and Peter pushes things away

“Karen, be real, is it weird if I listen to 80s synth on patrol?”

“No, Peter. It seems to make you comfortable,” Karen’s voice came a little louder over the music as Peter dodged a flock of pigeons swarming up from the left.

“To be honest, I think it’s kind of badass.”

The music swelled again.

“Karen?”

“I have decided not to make a comment.”

“Wow. Okay.”

Peter landed with a roll on a rooftop and looked out over the traffic.

“You know, it would be really great—like super great—“ He took off again, horns blaring below.

“—if the goddamn _Avengers_ could pick a place just a little closer to Queens. I mean Manhattan’s great and all, but I’ve got shit to do too—“

“—Lyft could be a viable option for the future—“ Karen’s voice cut in.

“In this traffic? Mr. Stark loves his rush hour.”

Twenty minutes of synth later, and Peter found himself literally creeping through an apartment building hallway looking for “#33 with the angel doormat.” Honestly what.

Peter moved to life the little brass knocker when the peephole on his side expanded—making an uncomfortable whirring sound.

“State your name,” a monotone voice sounded from…inside the door?

“Uh,” Peter cleared his throat. Perfecting his Spidey-voice (or Overconfident-Jake-Peralta impression as Ned called it) had taken some work and many binge watches, but he was figuring it out.

“Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Boy body-scan commencing.”

“What—no—Spider-Ma—“

“Very little muscle mass detected—“

“What the hell—“

The door to #33 jerked open and Sam Wilson stood there with a smirk on his face.

“Underoos let’s go, get in here,” Tony Stark’s voice came, muffled from somewhere in the apartment.

“Yeah, Spidey, let’s go,” Sam grabbed Peter by the shoulder, yanking him inside and shutting the door.

Peter glanced around at the small dwelling—he had stumbled into the dining room. The small wooden table was surrounded by four chairs, neatly pushed in. The wallpaper was a kind of floral brown, and there was one photo of a cow under a tree (quaint) framed on the wall to his left. There was one window in the room, but the blinds and shades were drawn and the only light, soft and yellow-ish, was coming from the living room.

Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, and Clint Barton sat in their respective chairs, or, in Clint’s case, sprawled on the salmon-pink couch, various tech and weapons laid out on the carpeted floor and coffee table.

Peter stood still as Sam moved around him to take a seat beside Tony in—was that a La-Z-Boy?

“Hey guys,” Peter said, hands on his hips and looking around in mock appreciation. “Didn’t know we were putting Cap in a retirement home so soon.”

“Ha, ha,” came Steve’s response, not looking up from the tablet in his hands.

“The angel doormat really adds a nice touch—very sweet. Got any ceramic cherubs? Are you a collector—no—a hoarder of all things cute and holy?”

“Just wait ‘till you see his beanie babies,” Clint muttered, eyes closed from the couch.

“Please, sit down,” Steve used his Captain voice and Peter obliged, hurtling over the back of the couch, eliciting a grunt from Clint as Peter landed on the other side near his feet.

“Chips?” He held the bag out in front of him as an offering.

The three men stared at his outstretched arm.

“I don’t even want to know where you pulled those out from,” Sam muttered, picking up his phone.

“Didn’t you eat dinner?” Tony raised his eyebrow, in a seemingly parent-like fashion.

“At 4:30 in the afternoon? Who eats dinner that early?”

“Let him be, Tony,” Steve lifted his head and gave the man a tired look from across the room.

“Yeah, this kid gets babied enough by you as it is,” Sam said.

“Excuse me for being concerned about a teenager’s eating habits,” Tony said dryly. “A growing boy goes through a lot of stress at this time—“

“Are you trying to mother-hen me, Mr. Stark?”

“No, that’s Cap’s job.”

“And we’re moving on,” Steve jumped in, tossing Peter a tablet. “We’ve got a project for you.”

“Well, I am an Avenging Intern, after all. Coffee orders locked in my brain. Lots of espresso shots,” Peter dropped the salt and vinegar chip bag onto the coffee table and put his left hand behind his head, reclining against the back of the couch while scrolling the tablet with his right. The suit, plus the past couple years of getting used to being in the same room as various Avengers, really built up confidence.

“Mug shots? Why does it look like these photos were taken by a potato?” Peter squinted down at his screen.

“Because they’re old. From IDs, not mug shots,” Steve said. “Hydra Agents from 1954, six of them. We’ve got some intel on them—exact look-alikes—hanging around a complex in the Bronx.”

Christ do these guys never die?

“But...they’re old, right? No offense, Cap,” Peter’s head shot up, confused.

Steve sat back in his chair, “None taken. No, these guys are—“

“Literally exact look-alikes—carbon copies,” Tony provided. “It’s…not right.”

“I thought we were done with the Lost Generation coming back from the dead,” Sam said. “I can only handle two pain-in-the-ass super soldiers in my life.”

“If they were super soldiers, we’d have a record.”

“Oh, we have records now?”

“I for one, would like a doppelgänger tracking system,” Clint reached for the chips.

“Alright, alright,” Tony cut in, turning to Peter.

“All we need, is for you to keep an eye out.”

Peter was incredulous, shoulders sagging, arm dropping, no longer in an “open body position”

“What? Mr. Stark that’s it? You called me all the way down here so I could stalk some old-not-old bums?”

“They’ve got Hydra attached to their names,” Steve reminded him. “This can’t be taken lightly.”

“But—“

“No buts, kid. You wanted a mission, you got one. And—“ Tony held his hand out, stopping Peter mid-complaint. “This is important. If you see them—any one of them—you call us. No!” He stopped Peter again, leaning forward from his chair.

“You. Call. Us. Do not take them on your own.”

Peter slumped back, feeling defeated. It was just like Tony and Steve to put him on something so boring. Thanos and the stones from two years ago had really got them. Peter was just a kid, a kid with potential and some serious power, but a kid under their jurisdiction (at least, when May wasn’t around). It’s not like Peter was left unaffected either, he—well. He just never talked about it.

Steve and Tony were proactive in gatekeeping him, protecting him, giving him small missions to keep his mind off of the…big stuff. Steve sent him anonymous letters with reflective therapy affirmations every week since Peter had…come back ("I am a survivor." "I am strong." "I have people who love me." Peter didn't often say them out loud as instructed). And Tony sent Happy over on Saturday mornings to bring him upstate to the lab for the afternoon. This helped, for sure--to science-out and sometimes see Dr. Banner and...well, The Avenger’s definitely had tabs on him. And he appreciated the support, but…what was next? For him?

The four men had gone back to planning, talking softly but with import. Finally, Steve turned back to him, running a hand through his hair. “Alright…Spider-Man. It’s late. You’ve got—“

“Things to do,” Tony interrupted. “I’ve sent Karen all the info you need. I’ll walk you out.”

“Oh I see. You guys are gonna have bingo night without me,” Peter got up from the couch, stretching his arms and definitely-accidently-on-purpose shooting a web at Sam’s left foot.

“Fu—you little shit—“

“Bye y’all!” Peter did a two-finger solute and followed Tony to the door.

“Mr. Stark, honestly, what’s with this mission? Why am I on the bench? I’ve been on the bench for _two years_ with you guys. You know I can do more than—“Peter reached for the doorknob but was stopped by Tony’s hand on his shoulder.

“Pete,” Tony spoke softly, as if to talk Peter down from a tantrum. “We know what you can do...but, _this_ is what we need you to do. For now. It’s…it’s this for now.”

Peter, suddenly, felt the urge to take his mask off. The Avengers—they all knew. His identity was toast with that crew, but talking to Tony like this made him feel…like he felt with May, sometimes. Like he had felt, maybe, with Ben.

“Okay.” Peter nodded once. Not that he was happy about it.

“Good,” Tony released his shoulder. “Now, I know you’re busy, waiting on those acceptance letters—they switched to email, right? God what a lame notice—do they do that cheesy shit with electronic confetti falling down your inbox? I mean—“

“Yeah, Mr. Stark, they do.”

“Jesus. And Prom? May told me about Prom—“No patrolling on Prom, Tony, no missions on Prom night, Tony or I swear—“”

“Uh,” Peter started.

“Prom?” Clint’s head popped up from the couch, tapping his hearing aid. “I went to Prom. Fucking awful—“

“Gonna rent a tux, Spidey?” Sam asked, lips twitching.

“Well—“

“Who’re you taking?” Steve seemed suddenly interested in the turn in conversation.

Sam chuckled, and Peter was horrified.

“What about that…friend of yours? Scary girl? With the key that’s actually a knife on her keychain—“ Tony snapped his fingers, as if trying to conjure a name out of the air.

“Alright guys, have a good night! Don’t drink all the prune juice in one go!” Peter yanked the door open and slammed it behind him, silencing the laughter from inside.

* * *

 

**MESSAGE 6:30PM**

**from** May

_Where are you? Leftover pasta in the fridge. Call me._

**MESSAGE 6:42PM**

**from** Sith Lord Leeds

_hey dude we gotta talk_

**MESSAGE 6:43PM**

**from**  Sith Lord Leeds

_Nothing serious but I’m  kind of freaking out_

**MESSAGE 6:44PM**

**from**  Sith Lord Leeds

_See u tomorrow_

**MESSAGE 6:45PM**

**From** Sith Lord Leeds

_Also Stargate reruns on Sunday morning lets do it_

**MESSAGE 11:24PM**

**from** MJ

_u need to buy more peanut butter_


	3. vanilla cupcakes

“Listen, I love Bond, but Pierce Brosnan can’t sing for his life—“

“Uh, one could argue that Meryl Streep can’t either—“

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ go after Meryl—“

“Okay but what about the exploitation of Greek culture—“

“Can’t we just enjoy something for what it is—“

“That’s the definition of a critical fan. Haven’t you guys learned anything from—“

“Fuck this, ABBA sucks anyway—“

“Fuck _you_ , Flash—“

The lunch table had evolved-slightly-from that of sophomore year. By the grace of some god (or demon, according to MJ), the whole decathlon team had the same lunch period for their senior year. Peter wasn’t complaining. He still got to eat his peanut butter sandwiches and chocolate milk while sitting next to Ned, ever faithful to his left side. MJ still got to read her books, only engaging if something really got on her nerves or someone was just…wrong (more often misinformed than wrong but MJ was one for the dry dramatics in these particular instances). Today she was closer to the group, hair down, not up, dog earring instead of using her trusty bookmark that Peter had got her for her birthday last year…why didn’t she—right, it was in her copy of Davis’ autobiography.

As the majority of the team battled on trivially that Friday afternoon, Peter texted Ned and MJ under the table everything he had learned from the EMBPs (Earth’s Mightiest Bingo Players was too long to type out) the night before. MJ had looked at her phone once and had rolled her eyes at him so hard he literally felt the wave of _over it._ Ned expressed a similar sentiment in a message:

_Hydra AGAIN??? Isn’t this getting old?_

Peter wanted to admit that, yes, this seemed like a recycled plot from years before, but what was he gonna do about? Say, “uh, no thanks guys, I’m kind of done with this storyline—could we pick it up in a few years?” Bullshit. He was assigned a job and he was gonna see it through…so that meant eggrolls to go for tonight because stakeout.

 _I’m so in. I can get everything set up in my room. But I’m getting masala cuz eggrolls don’t really agree_ —

Peter’s hands hit the underside of the table at the sudden scream from literally three inches to his right.

“Oh my god!!”

“Way to go Brian!”

“Get it, man!”

Brian was standing on the bench from the other side of the table, one hand on his heart, the other hoisting his phone in the air.

“Take a chance on me, Vivian! Prom?”  Brian was sweating through his sweater and smiling so big. For no reason, Peter shot a glance at MJ down the table, she had set her book down, one eyebrow raised, but wasn’t scowling. Next to him, Ned opened snapchat.

“YES!” Vivian removed her hands from her mouth where it looked like she had been suffocating herself from shock and ran around the table (most now with their phones capturing the whole event) to hurl herself into Brian’s arms.

Flash turned away, making a gagging motion with his entire face and neck while the lunch room erupted into…a scattered applause. High School.

Cupcakes were miraculously produced, chocolate and vanilla. The team celebrated with free food.

Peter looked to MJ again, shooting her a smile for, again, no reason. She surprised him by holding his gaze for longer than expected, pushing her hair behind her ear, and tearing her vanilla cupcake in half to make a sandwich.  He opened his mouth to say something, and then she flipped him off, promptly turning back to her pages.

* * *

 

“That was actually adorable,” Ned hooked his hands into his backpack straps as they made their way to the subway platform. “Who knew Brian could sing?”

“Who knew Brian knew about the existence of ABBA,” Peter unwrapped his saved chocolate cupcake. After-school snacks for the win.

“Peter, Brian would do anything for love…or for teenage hormonal intimacy.”

“Wow dude too far,” Peter made a face, swiping his pass and heading toward the stairs.

“All I’m saying is,” Ned huffed as he caught up. “The dude pulled out the stops. He used Viv’s interests, made a scene, and got the date.”

“Yeah? So what’s _your_ plan?” Peter stopped just short of the pillar to look up at the itinerary—2 minutes—and made to take a bite out of his dessert.

“Uh, the plan we’ve always had? Stag it up with MJ and then go back to yours for pizza," Ned glanced at him quizzically, as if daring him to contradict the arrangement.

“You weren’t inspired to serenade anyone out of pure lust? Ned, I'm shook.”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Ned opened his arms wide and made a move to get on one knee.

“Ned!”

Peter shoved the cake into his mouth and hoisted his friend up by the armpits, a little too forcefully so that Ned actually lifted a couple inches off the ground.

“Dude chillax! My voice isn’t that bad.”

Peter let out a bark of a laugh, spewing crumbs, as the train pulled in. To be honest, Brian really did seem to have something there…not that Peter would ever be brave enough to actually sing to someone to ask them out…especially if that person was most likely to turn on their heel and walk away from him on the spot. Especially not if that person was in the middle of a particularly good chapter. He wouldn’t even know what to sing—although, Stevie Wonder seemed like it could work judging by that one time he heard it blasting from her earbuds—

“Yo! Peter!” Ned was motioning from the doors of the train, sandwiched between two older ladies in marching purple tracksuits. True fashion icons.

Peter lurched into the compartment as the doors closed, grasping onto the bar. No, singing would definitely not work. Not that he was planning on it. Not at all.

As they pulled away, he felt Ned turn toward him.

“So, how would you ask MJ, then?”

“What? Ned--!” A rush of blood to Peter's face.

“I mean, hypothetically," Ned continued, oblivious. "D’you think if you just stared at her hard enough you would form a telepathic link and she’d think that was so cool she’d just have to say yes—“

“Ned what the hell honestly.”

“Just sayin’,” Ned shrugged and moved out of the way as the tracksuit ladies departed. “It’s not like you’re being discrete.”

“Uh—“ Peter started, defiantly.

Ned lifted his pointer finger in front of Peter’s face, effectively silencing him.

“Shhh, man. You just need to work on your tactics.”’

“Tactics? What—what does that even mean?” Peter spluttered, caught off guard by his friend’s causal approach to thoughts that weren’t even fully formed in his own brain.

“I mean, for an actual Avenger—“

“Ned—“

“—you suck at not-winging it.”

Peter glared at Ned until his friend’s stop. Before he disappeared up the steps, Ned turned, dropped to one knee and—

“Can yOU hEAR the DrUMS FERNANDO??!”

* * *

 

Group: Rebel Alliance

**MESSAGE 4:59 PM**

**from**  Sith Lord Leeds

_so when you're near me darling can't you hear me SOS_

 

**MESSAGE 5:02 PM**

**from** Petey

_SOS_

 

**MESSAGE 5:02 PM**

**from** Petey

_from you_

 

**MESSAGE 5:03 PM**

**from** MJ

 i _doits_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell the songs that have been in my head for WEEKS?

**Author's Note:**

> We'll see how this goes? been feeling the need to write something. I love these characters--honestly who doesn't.  
> Leave a comment (even a ! or a ? or a :[ will do). Thanks for reading!


End file.
